Last night Olivia crawled around on her hands and knees and pretended to be a dog.
Now, for parents of typical kids, this probably doesn't seem like that big a deal.
Heck, Alyssa was a horse from the time she was two until she was about six years old. She galloped through the house constantly for years. O doesn't have any pants to inherit from A from size 4 to 6 because Alyssa wore holes in every single pair of pants she owned at those ages.
But Olivia? While she'll come up to me and declare, "I'm a mermaid." she isn't much to actually act like one. She's just doing what she sees her sister do.
So last night, when she was crawling around the floor barking the cutest bark ever barked, my heart melted into a giant puddle of goo.
It was seriously the cutest thing EVER.
This is not to say that Alyssa's horse stage wasn't cute. It was adorable. It got old after the third year, but it was always cute, always endearing. I love her imagination, always have.
But there was somthing in Olivia's tentative little barks, her 'panting' each time she came up to me and 'begged' me to pet her, it was just...wonderful. Knowing that there are parents out there with kids that have 5p- who are told their kids will never do this, will never interact, never find joy in little things like pretending to be a puppy named Flower. That breaks my heart.
And it makes me realize how lucky we are.
This leads me to my July challenge.
My friend Page and I (her blog is over there on the right side of my blog, Life Unprecidented) have challenged each other to find one thing on each day of July for which we are grateful.
See, we've both been a little hard on ourselves lately. We've both had a bit of an attitude. And we know that we are the only ones who can change that.
We need to change our perspective. We need to stop seeing only the negative. In the words of another of my AMAZING friends, Lauren, we need to fake it until we make it.
So...join me?
Even if it's just a post script at the end of a normal, even negative post, post each day one thing that makes you happy, or one thing for which you are grateful. One positive thing that happened to you or occurred to you that day. If we fake it, we will make it.
A mom, a dad and two daughters. We're living ordinary lives with a twist of 5p- (Cri du Chat) for spice. But we're about so much more than our younger daughter's genetic diagnosis.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Visiting Hours
My poor dad...he's so lonely.
He's seventy-one years old, retired and lives alone. He'd like my brother and nephew to move in with him, not only for the company but also because it would be finacially beneficial for both of them (the brother and the dad, not the nephew) to do so.
I used to 'joke' that I couldn't move closer to work because I couldn't live within visiting distance to my dad. I was afraid he'd come over every single night and not leave until I was shuffling the girls off to bed.
It's turned out not to be that bad.
He really only comes over once every two or three weeks.
But...there's always a 'but', isn't there? Because my dad is retired, he doesn't seem to understand that there are those of us who are still on a normal, 6am to 8pm schedule. As in, I have to get the girls into bed no later than 8:30 or they're both grouchy, cranky pissy-pants the next morning.
Although I've told my dad this countless times, both subtly and blatantly, he STILL arrived at my front door no earlier than 7:45pm.
And then he stays until at least 8:30. He honestly believes that this is okay.
He thinks that by leaving at 8:30, he's leaving at bedtime. I've tried to explain that we have a bedtime ritual that needs to start at 8ish in order for the girls to be in bed, ready for actual sleep at 8:30, but he doesn't seem to care.
I often just start the night-time routines with him still there, the tooth-brushing, the pottying, etc. But he doesn't take the hint. No, instead, he follows me around the house, mumbling.
My dad? He cannot bring himself to speak in at normal, conversational volume. Oh no, he has to speak quietly, with his head down, chin on chest. I think this is his deliberate way of making sure you're paying attention. He's testing you, making you have to say, "What?" so he'll repeat himself.
It's annoying and frustrating. And the night-time routines don't do their job of calming the girls when we have company while doing them.
I love my dad. I do. Please don't think that I don't want him to come over and see us. Even though when he comes over he only talks about how much money my brother has cost him over the years and how once upon a time, there might have been an inheritance (HA!) but now...there is only debt.
I feel for him. I just wish he'd tell these things to the brother that's costing him instead of to me. I can't stop my brother from asking for money any more than I can stop my dad from GIVING him money.
But whatever. The topic of conversation wouldn't even bother me if my dad could be bothered to adjust his non-schedule so that he could arrive anytime between 5:30 and 7:00. If he could do that, and then plan to be out the door, driving away by 7:30, that'd be great too. I know, I know, in the summer, schedules are flexible. Except when they're not. Alyssa's still going to her reading program (one more day, she's been counting, but NOT crying, so there's that) and has to be up and out the door by 7:30 each morning. So bedtime stays at 8:30, at least for one more night.
I'm thinking of creating some sort of clever "Visiting Hours" sign to put outside our door. Something that will look sort of silly/cute yet actually be what we'd like people to respect.
Though...the only person to EVER show up after 7:00 is my dad. Looks like another uncomfortable conversation is on the horizon. The problem with these conversations is that his feelings get hurt and he pouts for a few weeks.
Although (she thinks maliciously) when he's pouting, he doesn't come visit...
See, that's just mean. I don't want that. I guess I just want him to see that it's not actually about him. It's not about what he's there to say. It's about the girls and me needing to get them to sleep.
But he is who he is. He can't take himselt out of the equation enough not to take it personally. But in the end, he usually gets over it and just goes back to his regular visiting hours anyway, we just get a few weeks respite. Is that worth it? In the end, yes, it probably is...sigh.
He's seventy-one years old, retired and lives alone. He'd like my brother and nephew to move in with him, not only for the company but also because it would be finacially beneficial for both of them (the brother and the dad, not the nephew) to do so.
I used to 'joke' that I couldn't move closer to work because I couldn't live within visiting distance to my dad. I was afraid he'd come over every single night and not leave until I was shuffling the girls off to bed.
It's turned out not to be that bad.
He really only comes over once every two or three weeks.
But...there's always a 'but', isn't there? Because my dad is retired, he doesn't seem to understand that there are those of us who are still on a normal, 6am to 8pm schedule. As in, I have to get the girls into bed no later than 8:30 or they're both grouchy, cranky pissy-pants the next morning.
Although I've told my dad this countless times, both subtly and blatantly, he STILL arrived at my front door no earlier than 7:45pm.
And then he stays until at least 8:30. He honestly believes that this is okay.
He thinks that by leaving at 8:30, he's leaving at bedtime. I've tried to explain that we have a bedtime ritual that needs to start at 8ish in order for the girls to be in bed, ready for actual sleep at 8:30, but he doesn't seem to care.
I often just start the night-time routines with him still there, the tooth-brushing, the pottying, etc. But he doesn't take the hint. No, instead, he follows me around the house, mumbling.
My dad? He cannot bring himself to speak in at normal, conversational volume. Oh no, he has to speak quietly, with his head down, chin on chest. I think this is his deliberate way of making sure you're paying attention. He's testing you, making you have to say, "What?" so he'll repeat himself.
It's annoying and frustrating. And the night-time routines don't do their job of calming the girls when we have company while doing them.
I love my dad. I do. Please don't think that I don't want him to come over and see us. Even though when he comes over he only talks about how much money my brother has cost him over the years and how once upon a time, there might have been an inheritance (HA!) but now...there is only debt.
I feel for him. I just wish he'd tell these things to the brother that's costing him instead of to me. I can't stop my brother from asking for money any more than I can stop my dad from GIVING him money.
But whatever. The topic of conversation wouldn't even bother me if my dad could be bothered to adjust his non-schedule so that he could arrive anytime between 5:30 and 7:00. If he could do that, and then plan to be out the door, driving away by 7:30, that'd be great too. I know, I know, in the summer, schedules are flexible. Except when they're not. Alyssa's still going to her reading program (one more day, she's been counting, but NOT crying, so there's that) and has to be up and out the door by 7:30 each morning. So bedtime stays at 8:30, at least for one more night.
I'm thinking of creating some sort of clever "Visiting Hours" sign to put outside our door. Something that will look sort of silly/cute yet actually be what we'd like people to respect.
Though...the only person to EVER show up after 7:00 is my dad. Looks like another uncomfortable conversation is on the horizon. The problem with these conversations is that his feelings get hurt and he pouts for a few weeks.
Although (she thinks maliciously) when he's pouting, he doesn't come visit...
See, that's just mean. I don't want that. I guess I just want him to see that it's not actually about him. It's not about what he's there to say. It's about the girls and me needing to get them to sleep.
But he is who he is. He can't take himselt out of the equation enough not to take it personally. But in the end, he usually gets over it and just goes back to his regular visiting hours anyway, we just get a few weeks respite. Is that worth it? In the end, yes, it probably is...sigh.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Curtains
With the bathroom painted the lovely white that it is and the blue, green and sandy tan accents, I felt the need to let the color scheme drift into the master bedroom.
Right now, there is hideous rose colored carpet on the floor and that's not going anywhere soon. So I vacuum it every so often and try to ignore. Sadly, it's in the best shape of all the carpet in the entire house, so it won't be replaced for a good long time.
Sigh.
But...I am good at ignoring things I don't like much. So I just pretend it's not there. And I keep my eye out for a nice area rug that could be placed in the center of the room and cover at least the majority of the carpet.
When we moved into the house, there were these awesome blinds int the master bedroom that block most of the sunlight that can pour in through the east-facing windows. I love them. They're great for when I have to wrestle the girls into bed at 8:30 on a summer night when the sun it still high in the sky. Tell them we have to go to bed, they go up the stairs bitching, "But it's still daytime!"
We enter the room with the blinds already down and suddenly, it's NIGHT!
So the blinds aren't coming down.
But I found the prettiest curtains that I want to hang in the bedroom anyway. They'r white with the exact shade of blue that accents the bathroom. They're gauzy and light. Perfect.
I bought them and intend to hang them.
But I haven't yet. Because...well, I'm good at starting projects but not quite so good at finishing them.
Anyway!! Once I bought the curtains I decided that my white comforter, with the one small stain needed to be dyed. I searched four different stores before finding the right color of blue to dye that thing. But dye it I did. And I love it.
Now on to the curtains.
I asked Tom the other day if he'd prefer the curtain rods to be in the walls or the window frames.
He said the window frames.
Okay...but it's hard work and so it hasn't happened. A few days after he answered my question, he said, "About those curtains...I thought that room had blinds."
"It does," I answered.
"Are you taking them down?"
I was horrified by the question. "Of course not! How would the girls EVER go to sleep if I took the blinds down? I love those blinds."
"So if the blinds are staying up, why are you hanging curtains?"
"Duh," I replied. "Because they're pretty."
He blinked at me a few times as if trying to figure out if I was serious, then walked away.
I was serious. I am serious. Those curtains are going up. Soon. Really.
Because they really are pretty.
The house is coming together slowly but surely. And I think Tom's slowly figuring out there that is no logic to pretty.
Right now, there is hideous rose colored carpet on the floor and that's not going anywhere soon. So I vacuum it every so often and try to ignore. Sadly, it's in the best shape of all the carpet in the entire house, so it won't be replaced for a good long time.
Sigh.
But...I am good at ignoring things I don't like much. So I just pretend it's not there. And I keep my eye out for a nice area rug that could be placed in the center of the room and cover at least the majority of the carpet.
When we moved into the house, there were these awesome blinds int the master bedroom that block most of the sunlight that can pour in through the east-facing windows. I love them. They're great for when I have to wrestle the girls into bed at 8:30 on a summer night when the sun it still high in the sky. Tell them we have to go to bed, they go up the stairs bitching, "But it's still daytime!"
We enter the room with the blinds already down and suddenly, it's NIGHT!
So the blinds aren't coming down.
But I found the prettiest curtains that I want to hang in the bedroom anyway. They'r white with the exact shade of blue that accents the bathroom. They're gauzy and light. Perfect.
I bought them and intend to hang them.
But I haven't yet. Because...well, I'm good at starting projects but not quite so good at finishing them.
Anyway!! Once I bought the curtains I decided that my white comforter, with the one small stain needed to be dyed. I searched four different stores before finding the right color of blue to dye that thing. But dye it I did. And I love it.
Now on to the curtains.
I asked Tom the other day if he'd prefer the curtain rods to be in the walls or the window frames.
He said the window frames.
Okay...but it's hard work and so it hasn't happened. A few days after he answered my question, he said, "About those curtains...I thought that room had blinds."
"It does," I answered.
"Are you taking them down?"
I was horrified by the question. "Of course not! How would the girls EVER go to sleep if I took the blinds down? I love those blinds."
"So if the blinds are staying up, why are you hanging curtains?"
"Duh," I replied. "Because they're pretty."
He blinked at me a few times as if trying to figure out if I was serious, then walked away.
I was serious. I am serious. Those curtains are going up. Soon. Really.
Because they really are pretty.
The house is coming together slowly but surely. And I think Tom's slowly figuring out there that is no logic to pretty.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Then We Both Cried
Ooh, yesterday was so, so bad.
It started out bad, with a headache and a backache for me. Have I mentioned how badly my daughters need to move into their own beds? Yes? Sorry, I must have blanked it out.
Anyway, I dragged my aching back out of bed at 9:00. Tom does me the favor of getting up with the girls on Sundays and even making them leave me alone from 7:00 until 9:00, at which time Alyssa came into my room to tattle on her dad. He wouldn't let her eat some cereal for breakfast.
Sunday's are the only day of the week that I make her eat an egg. She thinks it's half an egg, since she will only eat them scrambled.
I got up and made bacon and eggs, as is the norm. Alyssa bitched and moaned the entire time she ate her 'half' egg. Olivia ate like she hadn't eaten in a week.
Tom nibbled toast. You know how annoying it is to be around a man who is dieting? VERY, that's how annoying it is. Ugh!!
I took some Aleve and ate my eggs and some bacon because...mmmm, cholesterol.
Then I got on with the laundry, and the sweeping of the kitchen and the loading of the dishwasher, and getting Olivia dressed and making Alyssa sad when I told her she couldn't play with the Aqua Sand because it makes a big supid mess. Then I gave in, let her play with at the kitchen table and escaped up the stairs to nap, afterall, at this point, I'd been awake for almost three whole hours.
Forty-five minutes later, Alyssa was by the bed, asking me if I'd help her clean up the Aqua Sand because..."It's so hard to get it off the table and the floor and it's messy."
I know...
I went down and reswept the kitchen floor and then went out on the back deck. It was a lovely day yesterday, very little wind, temps in the mid-80s. After looking at the garden (yay, one of the six tomato plants has flowers on it. We WILL have tomatoes), picking fiv raspberries off the scrawny plants we transplanted from our old yard last fall, and watching Tom put cages around the tomato plants I told the girls we were going to Gram's to swim.
Oooh, the delight that raced through the house as they search for swimsuits and towels and goggles and sun screen (oh, wait that was me searching for the sun screen.) And for the record, I do wear a swimsuit into the pool, without a t-shirt over it. I'm working on accepting my body as it is even as I try to get to the point where I can and want to change it.
Once we were in the car for the three-mile drive to my mom's house, I decided that momma needed caffeine. So we took a slightly longer route and went to the Burger King drive-thru for chicken fries (for the girls, really!) and frozen Cokes, or a cherry Icee if you're Alyssa.
I don't know why, but I went ahead and got Olivia a frozen Coke. I should have just shared mine with her, but...I didn't wanna.
So I got them, and Alyssa put Olivia's in the cup holder that is built into O's carseat.
About a mile down the road, O says, "Here."
I reach back and she hands me her frozen Coke, upside down. UPSIDE DOWN! Which means I get a handful of frozen Coke.
I take the cup and screech, "Seriously? Did you really do that, Olivia? You know better!"
I look in the rearview mirror and she's got her hand over her eyes. She hates it when I yell.
I try to reign in my fury but it's not easy. I'm so angry. I'm tired, I have a headache and now, I have a sticky hand. I know, it sounds so stupid now but at the time it felt HUGE. I mean, if she didn't want to drink the stupid thing, why couldn't she have just left it in her cupholder, right.
I managed not to yell anymore but when we pulled into my mom's driveway, I got out of the car, wrenched O's door open, said through clenched teeth, "Get out of this car now!"
And then I got her out of the car (not violently, thank you Lord) and placed her on the ground, I said angrily, "Just walk away."
And that did it. She burst into tears. My baby just started wailing.
I turned and picked her up. I didn't yank her into my arms. I just picked her up and rubbed her back. But I was still mad.
My mom came out and I explained why I was so angry. She took Olivia from me even though O didn't really want her to do so.
They went inside and I went back to the car to clean up the mess.
And I saw...that she'd probably handed me the cup of frozen Coke because it had spilled onto her. The cupholder is at a weird angle, the cup that had been placed in it was probably top-heavy and had spilled against her, dripping frozen Coke onto her carseat and her leg.
She was just trying to get it out of her lap by handing it to me. But she doesn't the words to tell me that, so she just had to sit there and listen to me bitch and yell and be hateful.
She's four. She doesn't talk quite as well as some four year olds. Perhaps she speaks as well as some others, though, but not as well as Alyssa did at her age. She's four and she was cold and her mother was being horrible to her.
I started crying myself as I cleaned out the car.
I went inside.
O had stopped crying because Gram had pulled out some new shoes. Olivia was prancing around wearing beautiful new silver shoes.
I picked her up, told her her new shoes were beautiful and hugged her close, whispering, "Oh baby, I'm so sorry. It wasn't your fault and I'm so, so sorry."
And then we both started sobbing. My guilt was making me cry and my crying was making her cry.
Finally, I pulled myself together and we went swimming.
I told my mom that I feel awful because there's no excuse for my behavior. My mom said, "Sure there is. You're chronically sleep-deprived. You're so tired you can't think straight and you NEVER get time to yourself. Going to work doesn't count. You never get a break. And so sometimes, you snap. Is it fair? No, but don't beat yoruself up over it."
I love my mom. She's just all kinds of awesome. She never gets a break either so she gets it. I'm very, very lucky.
And in the end, Olivia forgave me. I can't ask for more than that.
It started out bad, with a headache and a backache for me. Have I mentioned how badly my daughters need to move into their own beds? Yes? Sorry, I must have blanked it out.
Anyway, I dragged my aching back out of bed at 9:00. Tom does me the favor of getting up with the girls on Sundays and even making them leave me alone from 7:00 until 9:00, at which time Alyssa came into my room to tattle on her dad. He wouldn't let her eat some cereal for breakfast.
Sunday's are the only day of the week that I make her eat an egg. She thinks it's half an egg, since she will only eat them scrambled.
I got up and made bacon and eggs, as is the norm. Alyssa bitched and moaned the entire time she ate her 'half' egg. Olivia ate like she hadn't eaten in a week.
Tom nibbled toast. You know how annoying it is to be around a man who is dieting? VERY, that's how annoying it is. Ugh!!
I took some Aleve and ate my eggs and some bacon because...mmmm, cholesterol.
Then I got on with the laundry, and the sweeping of the kitchen and the loading of the dishwasher, and getting Olivia dressed and making Alyssa sad when I told her she couldn't play with the Aqua Sand because it makes a big supid mess. Then I gave in, let her play with at the kitchen table and escaped up the stairs to nap, afterall, at this point, I'd been awake for almost three whole hours.
Forty-five minutes later, Alyssa was by the bed, asking me if I'd help her clean up the Aqua Sand because..."It's so hard to get it off the table and the floor and it's messy."
I know...
I went down and reswept the kitchen floor and then went out on the back deck. It was a lovely day yesterday, very little wind, temps in the mid-80s. After looking at the garden (yay, one of the six tomato plants has flowers on it. We WILL have tomatoes), picking fiv raspberries off the scrawny plants we transplanted from our old yard last fall, and watching Tom put cages around the tomato plants I told the girls we were going to Gram's to swim.
Oooh, the delight that raced through the house as they search for swimsuits and towels and goggles and sun screen (oh, wait that was me searching for the sun screen.) And for the record, I do wear a swimsuit into the pool, without a t-shirt over it. I'm working on accepting my body as it is even as I try to get to the point where I can and want to change it.
Once we were in the car for the three-mile drive to my mom's house, I decided that momma needed caffeine. So we took a slightly longer route and went to the Burger King drive-thru for chicken fries (for the girls, really!) and frozen Cokes, or a cherry Icee if you're Alyssa.
I don't know why, but I went ahead and got Olivia a frozen Coke. I should have just shared mine with her, but...I didn't wanna.
So I got them, and Alyssa put Olivia's in the cup holder that is built into O's carseat.
About a mile down the road, O says, "Here."
I reach back and she hands me her frozen Coke, upside down. UPSIDE DOWN! Which means I get a handful of frozen Coke.
I take the cup and screech, "Seriously? Did you really do that, Olivia? You know better!"
I look in the rearview mirror and she's got her hand over her eyes. She hates it when I yell.
I try to reign in my fury but it's not easy. I'm so angry. I'm tired, I have a headache and now, I have a sticky hand. I know, it sounds so stupid now but at the time it felt HUGE. I mean, if she didn't want to drink the stupid thing, why couldn't she have just left it in her cupholder, right.
I managed not to yell anymore but when we pulled into my mom's driveway, I got out of the car, wrenched O's door open, said through clenched teeth, "Get out of this car now!"
And then I got her out of the car (not violently, thank you Lord) and placed her on the ground, I said angrily, "Just walk away."
And that did it. She burst into tears. My baby just started wailing.
I turned and picked her up. I didn't yank her into my arms. I just picked her up and rubbed her back. But I was still mad.
My mom came out and I explained why I was so angry. She took Olivia from me even though O didn't really want her to do so.
They went inside and I went back to the car to clean up the mess.
And I saw...that she'd probably handed me the cup of frozen Coke because it had spilled onto her. The cupholder is at a weird angle, the cup that had been placed in it was probably top-heavy and had spilled against her, dripping frozen Coke onto her carseat and her leg.
She was just trying to get it out of her lap by handing it to me. But she doesn't the words to tell me that, so she just had to sit there and listen to me bitch and yell and be hateful.
She's four. She doesn't talk quite as well as some four year olds. Perhaps she speaks as well as some others, though, but not as well as Alyssa did at her age. She's four and she was cold and her mother was being horrible to her.
I started crying myself as I cleaned out the car.
I went inside.
O had stopped crying because Gram had pulled out some new shoes. Olivia was prancing around wearing beautiful new silver shoes.
I picked her up, told her her new shoes were beautiful and hugged her close, whispering, "Oh baby, I'm so sorry. It wasn't your fault and I'm so, so sorry."
And then we both started sobbing. My guilt was making me cry and my crying was making her cry.
Finally, I pulled myself together and we went swimming.
I told my mom that I feel awful because there's no excuse for my behavior. My mom said, "Sure there is. You're chronically sleep-deprived. You're so tired you can't think straight and you NEVER get time to yourself. Going to work doesn't count. You never get a break. And so sometimes, you snap. Is it fair? No, but don't beat yoruself up over it."
I love my mom. She's just all kinds of awesome. She never gets a break either so she gets it. I'm very, very lucky.
And in the end, Olivia forgave me. I can't ask for more than that.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
The I's Have It
Let me preface this by saying that I know I make my share of typos. I'm horrible about proofreading my own writing and when I go back and catch a misspelling or a typo I cringe and shudder delicately.
With that said...in what English class anywhere in this great big country of ours has I ever been able to be made possessive?
Let me give you an example. My lovely friend Julie and her husband celebrated their 16th anniversary last week. Happy Anniversary, Julie and Rick!!! Wheee...I can't believe it was sixteen whole years ago that I stood up at Julie's maid of honor. And it was SUCH an honor.
Anyway, when Julie mentioned that it was their anniversary she said, "Hey, it's Rick's and my anniversary. Happy day to us."
Okay, I probably shouldn't have used quotation marks there because it's not a direct quote from her. But it could have been. And it would have been grammatically correct.
And yet...I've seen others write and even heard them say, "It's my husband and I's anniversary."
Ugh!!! Seriously? How does that sound right? How is this justified? I don't get it.
To use Julie as another example, when she and her delightful husband were just dating, he took her home to meet his family. During the dinner, Julie mentioned to those gathered that her father had taken her and her mother out to eat a few weeks before.
Her exact words were, "My dad took my mom and me out to dinner..."
And one of her future in-laws snorted and said something like, "I would think that as an English major you'd know that I is correct in that sentence."
Julie was mortified. Not just because she'd been 'corrected' in front of many people she'd hoped to impress but also because the person correcting her was WRONG.
The rule I learned a hundred years ago in elementary school is to separate the subjects/direct objects of the sentence.
If I were going to tell you that my husband and I were celebrating an anniversary, I could take my husband out of the sentence and say, "It's my anniversary." Or take myself out of it and say, "It's my husband's anniversary." Put the two together and it's my husband's and my anniversary.
It will never be my husband and I's anniversary. It just won't.
Just like my dad will never take I out to dinner.
Whew, I feel better.
This English lesson is concluded.
And hey, Julie, I hope you don't mind the fact that I used your good name and your awesome grammar story in this rant.
With that said...in what English class anywhere in this great big country of ours has I ever been able to be made possessive?
Let me give you an example. My lovely friend Julie and her husband celebrated their 16th anniversary last week. Happy Anniversary, Julie and Rick!!! Wheee...I can't believe it was sixteen whole years ago that I stood up at Julie's maid of honor. And it was SUCH an honor.
Anyway, when Julie mentioned that it was their anniversary she said, "Hey, it's Rick's and my anniversary. Happy day to us."
Okay, I probably shouldn't have used quotation marks there because it's not a direct quote from her. But it could have been. And it would have been grammatically correct.
And yet...I've seen others write and even heard them say, "It's my husband and I's anniversary."
Ugh!!! Seriously? How does that sound right? How is this justified? I don't get it.
To use Julie as another example, when she and her delightful husband were just dating, he took her home to meet his family. During the dinner, Julie mentioned to those gathered that her father had taken her and her mother out to eat a few weeks before.
Her exact words were, "My dad took my mom and me out to dinner..."
And one of her future in-laws snorted and said something like, "I would think that as an English major you'd know that I is correct in that sentence."
Julie was mortified. Not just because she'd been 'corrected' in front of many people she'd hoped to impress but also because the person correcting her was WRONG.
The rule I learned a hundred years ago in elementary school is to separate the subjects/direct objects of the sentence.
If I were going to tell you that my husband and I were celebrating an anniversary, I could take my husband out of the sentence and say, "It's my anniversary." Or take myself out of it and say, "It's my husband's anniversary." Put the two together and it's my husband's and my anniversary.
It will never be my husband and I's anniversary. It just won't.
Just like my dad will never take I out to dinner.
Whew, I feel better.
This English lesson is concluded.
And hey, Julie, I hope you don't mind the fact that I used your good name and your awesome grammar story in this rant.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Mine
Update on the sleep issues: No change, except that they were more evil than ever last night. And in response, I barked at Olivia, "You better lay your little butt right back down." She seemed to think it was unreasonable that I'd want to lay her sleeping body down and go to the bathroom, expecting her to STAY asleep for the ten minutes I was away from her. Ugh!!!
Anyway, that's just there, in the background. Of course, I'm beginning to think I could quite possibly be pms'ing this week, which would explain the foul mood I've been in for five days straight.
Alyssa seems to be struggling to assert her place in the family. These days she's all about HER stuff. She doesn't want Olivia to even look at her anything Alyssa might consider her own. Touching it will reduce A to tears.
She can often be heard telling me, "She's always hogging you."
It's hard to be the older sister with a little sister who loves being babied.
A wants her independence but she also wants constant proof that she's in no way being overlooked in favor of her sister.
It's a fine line for us to walk and we often stumble.
I am guilty of letting O play with A's things. Sometimes, it just doesn't even occur to me that whatever item O has in her hands happens to be her sister's.
But the instant A sees that O is playing with it, she reminds me that I SAID I wouldn't do that. I'd PROMISED her that I would make O ask for permission before she played with A's stuff.
Except, give me a break, kid, it's a stupid mini fan that we got as a party favor at your cousin's graduation party. You BOTH have one, do they have to claimed as one or the other's?
Even cheap-ass McD's Happy Meal toys are claimed and divvied out as if it matters.
And it obviously does to Alyssa. I need to acknowledge that.
She feels her rights, her place in the family are being infringed upon by her sister. And her feelings are valid.
Frustrating? Yes. But still valid.
So I'm trying. I'm trying to remember that the red mermaid is Alyssa's and the blue one is Olivia's. Or is it the other way around?
I'm trying to remember that sometimes that big girl has needs that trump the little girl's wants. And when that happens, I make time for the big one, give her extra attention, remind her that she's my baby too, even if she getting almost too big to sit on my lap in the recliner. But she's not too big yet and so sometimes, we just sit together, giggling, being silly and enjoying each other's company.
The other day I had to leave work early for a meeting with the education team that will be working with Olivia in the fall. (This meeting and the resultant IEP deserve their own post. Which will come when I've had time to process it all.) I got home fairly early and took the girls to my mom's so we could swim in her pool.
Five minutes after getting into the pool, Olivia was shivering. So I got out with her and took her inside to warm her up.
I glanced out the window at my bigger little fish, who was still splashing, still swimming and I decided I'd leave O inside with my mom and go back out to swim a bit long with Alyssa.
She was delighted. She had me all to herself for over a half hour, at which point we were driven out of the pool by rain. But I think that half hour of 'racing' from end to end, of pretending we were mermaids, of just being together, just the two of us, recharged her sense of importance to me. It reminded her that she was here first, she was my first baby and she'll always be my girl.
We need more moments like that, my girl and I. And I'll make time for them.
But soon...we're going to be painting a bedroom a nice light blue, setting up lovely beds for two little girls who are about to embark on an adventure as they learn to sleep in a bed, a room, that does not have their mother in it.
Wish me luck.
Anyway, that's just there, in the background. Of course, I'm beginning to think I could quite possibly be pms'ing this week, which would explain the foul mood I've been in for five days straight.
Alyssa seems to be struggling to assert her place in the family. These days she's all about HER stuff. She doesn't want Olivia to even look at her anything Alyssa might consider her own. Touching it will reduce A to tears.
She can often be heard telling me, "She's always hogging you."
It's hard to be the older sister with a little sister who loves being babied.
A wants her independence but she also wants constant proof that she's in no way being overlooked in favor of her sister.
It's a fine line for us to walk and we often stumble.
I am guilty of letting O play with A's things. Sometimes, it just doesn't even occur to me that whatever item O has in her hands happens to be her sister's.
But the instant A sees that O is playing with it, she reminds me that I SAID I wouldn't do that. I'd PROMISED her that I would make O ask for permission before she played with A's stuff.
Except, give me a break, kid, it's a stupid mini fan that we got as a party favor at your cousin's graduation party. You BOTH have one, do they have to claimed as one or the other's?
Even cheap-ass McD's Happy Meal toys are claimed and divvied out as if it matters.
And it obviously does to Alyssa. I need to acknowledge that.
She feels her rights, her place in the family are being infringed upon by her sister. And her feelings are valid.
Frustrating? Yes. But still valid.
So I'm trying. I'm trying to remember that the red mermaid is Alyssa's and the blue one is Olivia's. Or is it the other way around?
I'm trying to remember that sometimes that big girl has needs that trump the little girl's wants. And when that happens, I make time for the big one, give her extra attention, remind her that she's my baby too, even if she getting almost too big to sit on my lap in the recliner. But she's not too big yet and so sometimes, we just sit together, giggling, being silly and enjoying each other's company.
The other day I had to leave work early for a meeting with the education team that will be working with Olivia in the fall. (This meeting and the resultant IEP deserve their own post. Which will come when I've had time to process it all.) I got home fairly early and took the girls to my mom's so we could swim in her pool.
Five minutes after getting into the pool, Olivia was shivering. So I got out with her and took her inside to warm her up.
I glanced out the window at my bigger little fish, who was still splashing, still swimming and I decided I'd leave O inside with my mom and go back out to swim a bit long with Alyssa.
She was delighted. She had me all to herself for over a half hour, at which point we were driven out of the pool by rain. But I think that half hour of 'racing' from end to end, of pretending we were mermaids, of just being together, just the two of us, recharged her sense of importance to me. It reminded her that she was here first, she was my first baby and she'll always be my girl.
We need more moments like that, my girl and I. And I'll make time for them.
But soon...we're going to be painting a bedroom a nice light blue, setting up lovely beds for two little girls who are about to embark on an adventure as they learn to sleep in a bed, a room, that does not have their mother in it.
Wish me luck.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Know What I Hate?
That guy, that one we all know, who is doing well on his weight-loss program, who happens to pass by my office at 9:40, just as I'm opening a bottle of Mountain Dew, who just HAS to stop and say something stupid like, "Ohh, going for the big bottle, huh? It's kind of early."
Then, when he spies the bowl of bbq chips on my desk (which he only sees because he comes INTO my office) he says smugly, "You know? That's NOT the breakfast of champions."
What I say is, "I know." Then I shrug and go back to work.
He chortles and walks away.
What I wanted to say was, "Yeah, asshole, I know! But as the mother of an eight year old and a four year old who are both STILL crappy sleepers, I don't get to sit at the breakfast nook each morning having a leisurely cup of coffee and some whole grain toast with low fat peanut butter on it. No, I'm hit the fucking floor running at 5:30, getting my whiny four year old dress before I even get to pee because I am not allowed to get up without her right there, ready to start the day. Then I have to fight with the cranky, still-over-tired eight year old about five more days of reading intervention."
I want to say that but I don't. I just eat another chip, take another swig of Mt. Dew and shuddered when he chortles again, hoping he'll just go away and leave me the fuck alone.
I also hate that my own self-loathing is projected onto my poor unsuspecting husband. See, I don't think I do much right. And because of this, every single thing he says I hear as a criticism. Everything he does, I see as him pointing out that I didn't do it so he HAS to do it.
And that's so unfair. I don't feel that way about the lawn. I am GLAD he mows the lawn and I never, ever feel guilty that I don't do it myself.
So why, when he's sweeping the kitchen or making a snack for one of the girls do I feel like he's silently saying, "You're a loser, you can't do this right/on time/fast enough so I have to."
I hate that.
I hate that, at their ages, my girls are both still crappy sleepers. I hate that they both seem to think they can't fall asleep without me next to them, scratching one back, holding one hand and singing, singing, singing.
Yes, yes, it's lovely that they want me near them. It's adorable that they like to hear me sing and it's sweet that they like the comfort of my physical presence.
But OMG! Go to sleep already! I should be able to take them to THEIR room, put them in bed, tuck them in, maybe read a story or sing ONE song, kiss them good night and leave the damn room whether they are asleep or not.
But you know what really happens? We go upstairs, into MY room, they both lay down in MY bed, Olivia lays on my left arm, Alyssa holds my left hand, and I scratch Olivia's back with my right hand while singing song after song after song.
Once upon a time, Alyssa was in her own bed. Sure, it was a twin bed that was still in my room but it was her own bed. Sometime in the last few months, she's migrated back to my bed. And I'm sick of it. Sick to death of it.
I know I should have some kind of sleep-intervention, some kind of intensive sleep-training event where I bite the bullet, set down the rules and prepare myself for a few nights of tears and whining instead of coming here and bitching and moaning. I know that. I also know that in the end, it would be kinder to do that than to lie in bed each night, resentful that my little bit of quiet, alone time is being sucked into the past as I sing and scratch and hold.
But...I'm weak.
So I sing and I hold hands and I scratch. And then I seethe and I bitch and moan. Then I'm grouchy the next day and it all begins again.
I hate that too.
Then, when he spies the bowl of bbq chips on my desk (which he only sees because he comes INTO my office) he says smugly, "You know? That's NOT the breakfast of champions."
What I say is, "I know." Then I shrug and go back to work.
He chortles and walks away.
What I wanted to say was, "Yeah, asshole, I know! But as the mother of an eight year old and a four year old who are both STILL crappy sleepers, I don't get to sit at the breakfast nook each morning having a leisurely cup of coffee and some whole grain toast with low fat peanut butter on it. No, I'm hit the fucking floor running at 5:30, getting my whiny four year old dress before I even get to pee because I am not allowed to get up without her right there, ready to start the day. Then I have to fight with the cranky, still-over-tired eight year old about five more days of reading intervention."
I want to say that but I don't. I just eat another chip, take another swig of Mt. Dew and shuddered when he chortles again, hoping he'll just go away and leave me the fuck alone.
I also hate that my own self-loathing is projected onto my poor unsuspecting husband. See, I don't think I do much right. And because of this, every single thing he says I hear as a criticism. Everything he does, I see as him pointing out that I didn't do it so he HAS to do it.
And that's so unfair. I don't feel that way about the lawn. I am GLAD he mows the lawn and I never, ever feel guilty that I don't do it myself.
So why, when he's sweeping the kitchen or making a snack for one of the girls do I feel like he's silently saying, "You're a loser, you can't do this right/on time/fast enough so I have to."
I hate that.
I hate that, at their ages, my girls are both still crappy sleepers. I hate that they both seem to think they can't fall asleep without me next to them, scratching one back, holding one hand and singing, singing, singing.
Yes, yes, it's lovely that they want me near them. It's adorable that they like to hear me sing and it's sweet that they like the comfort of my physical presence.
But OMG! Go to sleep already! I should be able to take them to THEIR room, put them in bed, tuck them in, maybe read a story or sing ONE song, kiss them good night and leave the damn room whether they are asleep or not.
But you know what really happens? We go upstairs, into MY room, they both lay down in MY bed, Olivia lays on my left arm, Alyssa holds my left hand, and I scratch Olivia's back with my right hand while singing song after song after song.
Once upon a time, Alyssa was in her own bed. Sure, it was a twin bed that was still in my room but it was her own bed. Sometime in the last few months, she's migrated back to my bed. And I'm sick of it. Sick to death of it.
I know I should have some kind of sleep-intervention, some kind of intensive sleep-training event where I bite the bullet, set down the rules and prepare myself for a few nights of tears and whining instead of coming here and bitching and moaning. I know that. I also know that in the end, it would be kinder to do that than to lie in bed each night, resentful that my little bit of quiet, alone time is being sucked into the past as I sing and scratch and hold.
But...I'm weak.
So I sing and I hold hands and I scratch. And then I seethe and I bitch and moan. Then I'm grouchy the next day and it all begins again.
I hate that too.
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